


Antebrachium

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dom Greg Lestrade, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, it's not that long read it and you'll see what happens, mystrade, other fun stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg and Mycroft are never seen in public together. That doesn't mean they don't know each other...





	Antebrachium

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Second work now complete! [Star Crossed Lovers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11081760)
> 
> This work arose from a conversation with the lovely [CasMonster1](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Casmonster1/pseuds/Casmonster1) on Facebook. I wrote two stories from the same prompt, actually, and they went in totally different directions, which was unexpected but good. 
> 
> The Prompt: this [ meme ](https://ifunny.co/fun/w4I9k7KZ3?gallery=tag&query=mystrade) appeared, and CasMonster1 and I took that and ran with it, winding out ideas as to why they never meet, though they are at the same crime scenes. 
> 
> Here's one version for you. This is set right before the start of ASiP - a prequel to that last scene, if you will.

“Another one, Mycroft?” Greg asked wearily. He didn’t even try to protest any more, it wasn’t worth it. Mycroft seemed to always show up when his defences were lowest, and tonight particularly, he simply couldn’t be bothered.

Sliding onto the warmed leather seat, Greg sighed. At least he’d get a hot meal he didn’t have to cook, though it would be a little later home than he had planned. As the car rolled along the deserted streets, Greg’s eyes drifted closed, lulled by the gentle motion and quiet companionship.

“Gregory?” A soft voice cut into the darkness, and Greg groaned, rolling his head in protest.

He felt a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and part of his brain realised he was sitting up. Dragging his eyes open, Greg looked over at Mycroft who withdrew his hand immediately, looking uncomfortable.

“We’ve arrived, Gregory.”

His voice was more relaxed than Greg remembered hearing, and he struggled up out of the fog and the seat, fumbling with the door handle and stumbling out, feeling woozy from the aborted sleep. He blinked up at the private residence in front of him. This was not the usual discrete restaurant they usually visited.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice rough.

“This is my home,” Mycroft replied, steering him towards the front door.

The hand on the small of his back was a comforting pressure, Greg swaying a little as the security clearances were met and they were granted access. The slow blinking his eyes were doing meant Greg’s view of Mycroft’s house was a series of snapshots – a spacious hall; a glimpse of a huge kitchen; soft carpet on stairs and finally a large bedroom.

“Guest bedroom,” Mycroft murmured, and Greg nodded, gratitude flooding his system. He sat on the edge of the bed, then rolled onto it, sleep immediately pulling him under.

+++

Greg woke in stages, the unfamiliarity of his surroundings finally raising enough questions to lift him out of his sleep. The room was dim, but he could make out the layout, and the smoothness of the blanket under his hand. Greg dragged himself to sit up as he blinked himself awake. His shoes were on the floor next to the bed, his jacket across the armchair in the corner. The previous evening came back to him – the late scene, Mycroft picking him up….Mycroft. He was at Mycroft’s house, Greg finally remembered. He didn’t have any memory of getting into the house, or into bed – Mycroft must have helped him, unless it was Anthea? Unlikely, Greg told himself.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching out the usual morning kinks before tying his shoes and shrugging on his jacket. For the sake of his bladder he snooped until he found the en-suite before making his way down the stairs, following the smell of coffee.

“Good morning,” Mycroft’s voice greeted Greg as he entered the kitchen, his steps on the tile marking his entrance. Mycroft was seated at the table, doing a crossword, from what Greg could see.

“Please, help yourself.” Mycroft indicated the coffee, tea and warm croissants on the table.

“Thanks,” Greg murmured, sliding into the seat across from Mycroft. He poured coffee and buttered a croissant, eating in silence as his brain booted up properly. Taking a second croissant, Greg ventured, “Why exactly did I spend the night here, then?” His words weren’t exactly what he was looking for, and Greg hoped Mycroft would overlook the double entendre for the moment.

Mycroft spoke without looking up from the newspaper, in which he was filling in crossword answers at speed. “I was heading for Tivoli, however you fell asleep and I assumed you’d prefer to come here rather than have your neighbours talking about my helping you inside?”

Greg felt his cheeks warm as the confusion rose in him. “Exactly how much help are we talking here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft’s face rose in surprise. “You don’t remember?”

“I was pretty tired,” Greg shrugged.

“I thought I’d have to carry you in for a moment,” Mycroft admitted, “though you made it on your feet eventually. I helped you with the stairs and removed your shoes and jacket after you passed out on the bed.”

His voice was matter of fact, and nothing that any friend might do for another, yet Greg’s face burned.

There was no way Mycroft knew exactly how Greg would have pictured a night in Mycroft’s house – it certainly would not have involved Mycroft stopping at his shoes and jacket. There would have been two of them in the bed. And no sleeping. At all.

Clearing his throat, Greg concentrated on his coffee, which was lukewarm but excellent. He wondered if Mycroft had a plan for today – it was Saturday, after all, and judging from the lack of tie and waistcoat, Mycroft was not planning on working.

“You are, of course, free to leave,” Mycroft murmured, correctly deducing the train of thought running through Greg’s mind.

A flare of irritation flamed in Greg. “That’s pretty annoying, you know,” he said without thinking.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

“When you answer a question I haven’t even asked.”

“Surely it saves you the effort of speaking?” Mycroft replied, a line appearing between his eyebrows as he drew them together.

“Not really. It takes away my choice to speak my mind or not,” Greg replied, more annoyed at the lack of control than anything else.

Mycroft nodded. “I understand. I will refrain from commenting on my deductions in future.”

He continued to look at Greg, who wondered if the coffee had been spiked when he found himself blurting, “How accurate are your deductions, do you think?”

Mycroft, who was refolding his newspaper, froze for a moment, before completing the task. “Extremely accurate. Why do you ask?”

Definitely spiked, Greg thought as he held Mycroft’s gaze and said, “Go ahead, then.”

Mycroft looked confused. “Right now?”

Greg nodded.

After a beat, Mycroft sat back in his chair, considering. “It’s not a skill that can be turned on and off, Gregory.”

Greg felt his heart beat faster at the use of his first name – Mycroft had always called him Detective Inspector Lestrade. He fought to keep himself still, not wanting to give anything away.

Mycroft stood up, his eyes drifting across Greg’s face, his hands, folded in front of him on the table. Moving slowly, Mycroft walked around the table, considering Greg’s posture, his feet planted firmly on the floor.

Greg could feel the shift of the air as he passed, a citrusy scent following him.

Mycroft turned, standing beside his own seat, still studying Greg. A look of mild surprise crossed his face, before morphing quickly into something he hid so quickly Greg couldn’t figure it out. Allowing a small smirk to grace his lips, Mycroft raised one wrist and popped out his cufflink. He held Greg’s eyes as he rolled the sleeve up to his elbow, the neat even folds revealing pale forearms with a light covering of ginger hair.

Greg swallowed – this was more skin than he’d ever seen Mycroft reveal, and it was sending his body into overdrive. His eyes were fighting to hold Mycroft’s and watch his show at the same time – he’d removed the other cufflink now, depositing the pair in his saucer, rolling the second sleeve up as well.

Task completed, Mycroft let his arms drop to his sides, a low chuckle pulling Greg out of his near trance and up to Mycroft’s face once more.

“Well, well, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured, “it seems I’ve been mistaken.”

Greg frowned, half his mind still reviewing the images of Mycroft rolling up his sleeves. “What?”

There was a wicked glint in Mycroft’s eyes as he drawled, “I’ve been thinking you’ve not been interested. And all I had to do was this.” He indicated his sleeves, chuckling darkly again as Greg’s eyes widened.

“You did that on purpose?” Greg asked, his voice deeper than usual. The smirk on Mycroft’s face confirmed it, and the embers of Greg’s attraction flared into life. Knowing his desire was shared, Greg wasted no time. Mycroft was clearly waiting for him, teasing until recognition dawned on him. Pushing him to do something.

“You’ll pay for that, Mycroft Holmes,” Greg growled, pushing back his chair and stalking around the table.

“I certainly hope so,” Mycroft replied, his eyes challenging.

Greg came close, well within Mycroft’s personal space, but rather than kissing him, as Mycroft clearly expected, he locked his hands around the slender wrists, his face inches from his startled host.

“I’m going to make you beg me to do all manner of filthy things, Mycroft,” Greg said, so low it would have been inaudible anywhere but this silent space.

Mycroft’s eyes flew wide and he looked suddenly less sure of himself.

Greg grinned a feral sort of grin, the kind designed to stake a claim. “You’re all mine, Mycroft, and I can’t wait to find out what you’ve been hiding under those suits.”

He released one of Mycroft’s wrists, lowering himself to his knees and bringing the other wrist to his mouth, running his lips across the tender skin. Greg could feel the heartbeat flutter like a bird’s under his mouth, and extended his tongue to lick a wide stripe up the forearm from wrist to elbow, sucking on the pale skin just exposed by the fabric of his sleeve.

Mycroft groaned at the sensation, and Greg felt the desire kick through him again at the thought of what he might do with this body.

Sucking harder, Greg left a light bruise on the fleshy inside of the pale forearm, invisible under his suit but a brand nonetheless. He looked at the reddening oval and kissed it before sliding his mouth back down to take two of Mycroft’s fingers into his mouth, running his tongue over the ridges of his fingerprints.

As his mouth worked, Greg, eyes now closed, heard Mycroft gasp and stumble against the table. Greg sucked hard, taking the digits deep into his mouth and letting them slide out again, teeth skimming across Mycroft’s knuckles as his tongue pressed between the fingers. Greg bit down as the fingertips passed between his teeth, trapping them there as he looked up at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s eyes were closed, head thrown back as his other had clutched the table for support. Greg bit harder until, with a ragged groan, Mycroft opened his eyes and dropped his head forward, gaze finding Greg kneeling at his feet.

One last extra bit of pressure, and Greg released Mycroft’s hand, which dropped like a stone. Both men were breathing hard now, Greg’s body coursing with victory and desire and incredulity that this was even happening.

Heart pounding, Greg’s hands landed on Mycroft’s leg, palms cupping the curve of his calf. The hitch in Mycroft’s breath made his body jerk a little, and Greg’s hands tightened in response. They froze for a moment, neither moving until Mycroft inhaled, the sound somewhere between a sob and plea.

Immediately, Greg started sliding his hands up Mycroft’s leg, the fabric under his hand smooth. He could feel the tense muscles under his fingers, the rigidity of the bones passing under Greg’s thumbs. As he passed the curve of Mycroft’s knee, Greg’s breathing became deeper and more ragged, his control sorely tested. Mycroft had not closed his eyes, despite the desperately rough breathing, and Greg’s hands inched inexorably towards the top of his inseam.

Just as the side of his hand threatened to nudge the heavy mass resting there, Greg stopped, raising his eyebrows in mute appeal. He wanted to be sure, to have explicit permission before they moved from this admittedly intense but still implicit teasing to anything more serious.

At the moment he paused, Mycroft let out a groan of frustration, and his eyebrows had barely shifted before a stuttering appeal of, “please, oh please…” tumbled from Mycroft’s mouth.

Without hesitation, Greg leaned forward, pressing his open mouth against the twitching hardness at Mycroft’s groin.

He’d been expecting the hands to shift, Greg could tell by the shout of surprise. Once the initial spasm had subsided, Greg did shift his hands, swiftly and firmly cupping Mycroft’s balls, pressing them up into the base of his cock. Greg’s mouth was still pressing into Mycroft’s groin, and the dual pressure was almost too much, judging by the near collapse of his knees.

Greg kept mouthing at Mycroft’s hardness as his hands dealt with belt and buttons; he only drew away in order to lower Mycroft’s fly with his teeth, making sure to drag his chin hard down the length of the cock still covered by black silk pants.

Mycroft groaned again, and Greg decided that he could probably live with hearing that sound as often as possible for a very long time indeed.

Pulling on both trousers and pants, Greg released Mycroft from the confines of his clothing, allowing his cock to jut free of his body. Greg knew that it would be a very short show, all things considered, and he was fine with that – wondering how Mycroft sounded when he came was something Greg did on a regular basis, and now he finally had the chance to find out. His control was slipping now, and he hand no idea if this would be their only encounter, so he intended to make it as memorable as possible.

Without the preamble and teasing he knew Mycroft was bracing for, Greg licked a wide stripe up the pale cock, mirroring his action of earlier, before taking its length into his mouth until he felt the head hit his soft palate. He wanted to smile at the tension that shot through Mycroft’s body, the sound that was rent from him at the undoubtedly hot wetness suddenly surrounding him.

Greg did not pause, using his tongue against the underside as he slid up and down Mycroft, allowing his own moans to show how much he was enjoying his task. It was difficult not to take his hand to his own straining cock, as arousing as he was finding this; Mycroft was so responsive that there was a chance Greg would come without being touched at all, something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

For the moment, though, he concentrated everything he had on giving Mycroft the blowjob of his life. Greg used every technique he’d ever enjoyed or heard of, and from the sounds Mycroft was now making on each breath, he was close. Greg’s hands, which had been steadying Mycroft’s hips, now shifted – one up under his shirt, searching for a nipple, the other down lower to massage his balls.

The combination of these sensations – the pinched nipple, Greg’s hand on his balls and a hot wet mouth sucking him down – was too much and an agonised cry of, “Gregory!” ripped through the kitchen. Mycroft’s hands flew to the back of Greg’s head, holding him there as his hips thrust, come flowing down Greg’s throat.

He was glad he’d anticipated this - experience had made him take a deep preparatory breath and swallow continuously until he felt Mycroft relaxing, his body exhausted after such an intense experience. Greg slowly let the soft cock slip from his mouth, one hand on Mycroft’s hip, the other fumbling with his own fly.

He’d just laid his hand on himself when a huff of laughter from Mycroft made him look up, and the incredulous desire in those still wild eyes made him come there and then, all over the floor at Mycroft’s feet. He grunted as he felt Mycroft’s hand slide into his hair, gently connecting them through his orgasm.

When he finally sank to the floor Greg was gasping, his jaw was hurting, and he was sure his knees would be protesting for days, yet the warmth in his chest was worth every bit of it. The silence after such a continuous stretch of noises was odd, the absence of sound ringing in his ears as his breathing and heartrate normalised. Greg was just wondering if he should remove his shirt to clean himself up when a hand lowered next to his face bearing a cloth napkin.

“Oh, thanks,” Greg said, cleaning himself up and redressing his trousers. He took another napkin from the table, before doing his best with the floor, though streaks of wetness still marred the tile. Standing, Greg was uncertain what to do with the now very soiled napkins.

Mycroft took them both, placing the floor one in the bin, before looking Greg in the eye and pressing the other to his face, inhaling the scent of Greg’s body and fluids.

“Jesus, Mycroft…” Greg breathed, the filthy action making him wonder if he had it in him for another go in the very near future.

Mycroft grinned, dropping the second napkin in the bin atop the first. “Just ‘Mycroft’ is fine,” he said, looking smug before the expression dropped from his face.

They stared at each other from opposite sides of the kitchen for a long, silent moment before Mycroft spoke. His tone now matched the more tentative look on his face. “That was remarkable.”

Greg grinned, a little abashedly at the compliment. “You too.”

Mycroft snorted. “As I recall, you did most of the work.”

Emboldened, Greg moved closer, saying, “As _I_ recall, you did the seducing.”

Mycroft was smiling now, closing the gap between them. “I’m not sure we need to argue about this Gregory. The main point is, you promised to make me beg, and I do not recall doing such.”

Greg was now close enough to place one hand on Mycroft’s chest, reversing his momentum and guiding him back against the wall. He stepped in close, legs outside Mycroft’s before growling in his ear, “I never said when, Mycroft. And it was begging for filthy things, don’t forget.” He pulled his head back to look in Mycroft’s eyes, and realised they’d never actually been this close to each other – despite the scene earlier, he and Mycroft had not even kissed each other.

The same thought was obviously occurring to Mycroft, whose gaze was flickering between Greg’s eyes and mouth.

“I could beg right now, you know,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg could see the control he was exhibiting in not leaning forward to kiss him. What a natural sub, Greg thought.

“Really.” Greg replied, shifting the hand on Mycroft’s chest unerringly against the nipple he’d tweaked before, rubbing his thumb against the still peaked nub. Mycroft gasped and Greg grinned. “I think you could, actually.”

“Please,” Mycroft whispered, his eyes still on Greg. “Please, kiss me.”

“Hmmm,” Greg pondered, restraining his urge to do just that.

“Please, Gregory,” Mycroft repeated, his voice breathy and soft, a note of desperation as Greg’s body remained still except for that thumb, still rubbing with agonising slowness against his nipple. “Plea-oooh!” he cried, as Greg stopped rubbing and pinched, rolling the nipple hard between his fingers.

Greg grinned. “I think we are going to have some serious fun, Mycroft Holmes.” He bent his head slowly, lips barely touching, testing Mycroft’s control. He was impressed, feeling the tremors run through Mycroft’s mouth as he struggled not to move. Finally, Greg pressed their mouths together and slid his arms around Mycroft, pulling their bodies together.

Mycroft followed, a groan of release spilling from him as they clung to each other, kissing deeply, tongues wrestling, breath combining as they learned each other’s touch and taste.

Finally, after a long, long time, Greg pulled back a little, gasping. Mycroft looked completely wanton, Greg thought, and it was incredibly arousing – he was hard again despite the recent events, and he was pretty sure Mycroft was too.

“Shall we…” Greg suggested, just as Mycroft’s phone rang. He groaned, knowing Mycroft was probably being called in to something big. As he shifted to allow Mycroft to move, his own phone, set with his keys and wallet on the bench, also buzzed – he had a message.

“Another suicide," Greg muttered at the screen. He looked at Mycroft.

“Yet another situation that requires my attention," Mycroft remarked. They looked at each other across the kitchen again.

“Don’t suppose I’ll see you again soon?” Greg asked, unsure of their dynamic now.

Mycroft grinned. “I suspect that’s up to you.” He moved closer, smoothing Greg’s shirt over his chest.

“With any luck, Sherlock will crack these suicides soon, then I’ll have some time owing,” Greg murmured. “I’ll spend the time thinking about those filthy things, will I?”

Mycroft groaned. “I know I will.” They kissed again, a slower, more sure connection.

“I might even need you at a crime scene…” Greg suggested, a naughty tone to his voice.

Ginger eyebrows rose at the idea. “My cars have tinted windows and very discrete drivers.”

The feral grin flashed again, just for a moment. “I’ll keep an eye out, then.”

+++

It wasn’t long until Mycroft found himself standing on a wet street outside the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, wondering whether the filthy acts he’d been thinking about matched those in Gregory’s mind.

As the man talking to the paramedics turned and spotted him, Mycroft’s heart started pounding. It looked like he was about to find out.


End file.
